


Forecourt Smokeshow

by inbox



Series: Psychic Load [7]
Category: Cable (Comics), Marvel 616, Punisher (Comics)
Genre: A Subtle Touch Of Inherent Catholicism, Intercrural Sex, Jock Straps, M/M, Muscles, Quiet Sex, Rough Oral Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Sexual Fantasy, Size Difference, Sweat, Telepathic Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:21:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28385424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inbox/pseuds/inbox
Summary: Christ almighty,Frank thinks, looking down at Cable’s big metal hand on his hip, at the way those banded gleaming inhuman fingers flex and push into his skin as Cable sucks him through spit-stained cotton.God al-fucking-mighty. How did I get this lucky.
Relationships: Frank Castle/Nathan Summers
Series: Psychic Load [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1367605
Comments: 5
Kudos: 19





	Forecourt Smokeshow

**Author's Note:**

> My end of year quote unquote 'gift' is a few thousand silly, yet hopefully readable words about cumbrained big boys with zero character development, as intended. Happy holidays!

Cable’s hands are hot on his hips, heavy and huge, broad enough that his fingers dig into the crease of Frank’s thighs. His breath gusts against Frank’s cheek, puffing hot and stale, and he makes a noise from deep in his chest when Frank shifts his balance from foot to foot to counter against the powerful weight at his back. 

He feels, rather than hears, Cable laugh against his back, feels the hitch of that big broad chest hunched over Frank’s spine. The smarmy prick laughs at him and fucks into the tight press between Frank’s thighs, and _still_ has the balls to shush Frank like he's the one acting like a misbehaving dog. 

Goddamn Summers. He’s insufferable and compelling in equal measures, even when he's the architect of the dumbest idea Frank’s gone along with in a long while. 

Overhead the aging air freshener wheezes out a puff of watery scent, falling down over them both like a bubblegum-sweet mist. 

_Terrible fuckin’ idea,_ Frank reiterates to himself. He glances back at the door in the mirror, keeps looking at it reflected past Cable’s shoulder. He locked it himself. Double checked the lock even, triple checked it, just in case someone tried their luck after on a long car trip. Rattled it in the frame, doing his diligence. Never leave a plan half executed, even as Cable was popping the buttons on his fly and deciding, like there was even a whole lotta options to choose from in the first place, that he wanted Frank bent over the bathroom sink. 

Cable groans again when Frank tenses his thighs, loud as all the bells of hell to Frank’s ears. 

“Christ almighty, be fuckin’ quiet,” Frank hisses between clenched teeth. “You're too loud.”

“Can you blame me?” Cable squeezes Frank’s hips and grinds deep and slow, nudging against the seam of Frank’s jock and pressing blunt against the back of his balls as Cable sighs with dumb animal pleasure. “Can't be quiet when I've got this in front of me.”

Frank tells him to shut the hell up and rides back on his heels, feeling the hot press of Cable’s skin against his ass, the sweaty scratchy of his pubes. If they were somewhere more private he'd brace his arms against the bench and arch his back and goad Cable into fucking his thighs hard and sharp, just how he likes it from him, fast enough to clap skin against skin. 

Not here though. Too public. Stupid idea in the first place, giving it up in a gas station shitter with just a shitty latch lock and a kick plate door for privacy. Whole forecourt of people gassing up just ten feet away, gonna know what's happening the second they make too much noise--

“What’s the matter, sweetheart,” Cable teases. “Worried they'll hear how good you're getting it?”

He hangs his head at that, as if it might in any way ameliorate the violent flush of heat staining his ears cherry red. “Worried they’ll bust in and see your moon-white ass sawing away,” Frank manages. 

Cable doesn't dignify that with a response, not that it deserved one in the first place. He digs his fingers into the bones of Frank's hips, hard enough to leave a mark, and mutters some kinda cum-brained nonsense about Frank’s thighs, Frank's tits, about waiting all day to get his hands on him, get his hands full of him. It’s dribbled horseshit from the big man’s mouth, just like it always is, but hell if it's not the kinda stuff that worms into Frank's memory to warm up the longer, lonelier nights in his life. 

_I used to have dignity,_ Frank lies to himself in the mirror. His face is red and shiny, hair sticking to his forehead in sweaty dark curls. He looks like someone who is leaking through his jock at the act of being ridden hard and put away wet in a gas station bathroom. He looks like someone who knew that he was gonna go stupid in the head and make a dumb decision the moment Cable had found him in the gas station chip aisle and asked, gesturing with a popsicle in hand and his eyebrows practically raised to his hairline, if Frank wanted to hit the heads. 

“Long drive ahead,” Cable had said slowly, all ham. “Be a wasted opportunity not to freshen up.” He punctuated his sentence with a showy smack of his lips 'round the tip of his raspberry popsicle. Frank had glanced at the cameras overhead, at the bored clerk ringing gas for frustrated road trippers and sweaty truckers, and thought, not the first time, how some things don't need to be recorded for posterity. Cable’s put his own face on the news more times’n Frank can count, sure, that's his prerogative, but like hell Frank wanted to think about the internet falling onto a clip of The Punisher going pink around the ears while holding a packet of Bugles. 

Frank tartly told him to beat it, ignoring Cable’s smug leer. He paid for his chips and a bottle of seltzer and killed a minute fucking around in the front seat of the van, tossing old coffee cups and Cable’s granola wrappers into the trash. Nothing vital about the task, other’n the fact he’s tired of smelling stale coffee, but it's a much-needed distraction to ward off the sight of Cable strolling across the gas station forecourt with his fingers locked together and stretched towards the sky, blatantly showing off, an oversized novelty cactus keyring dangling from one gleaming silver fingertip. 

“You know where. Don't make me wait,” he said, and smacked his palm on the van’s quarter panel so Frank had no excuse to keep on pretending he was oblivious to Cable strolling across the last few feet of forecourt concrete and unlocking the men's room door. 

Now, not five minutes later, the Frank in the mirror looks like he's having the time of his life, sweaty and flushed and shuddering against the chipped laminate bench with every heavy roll of Cable’s hips. _Dignity,_ he reproaches himself silently, as if repeating a lie enough might make it halfway truthful. 

Cable says _mmhmm_. His hand is dry and hot where he cups Frank's cheek, thumb stroking his unshaven whiskers as he pulls Frank's head ‘round ‘til his neck pains. “No one’s lining up outside for my pussy, sweetheart. I could step aside and let ‘em look at you all ass out and begging for it. Bent over a gas station sink, Captain Castle got herself so hot for it he hasn't even pushed down his panties.”

Frank shakes his head, his throat dry as the desert. He should seize at the knee jerk response to defend his dignity, mostly ‘cause Cable had been the one to insist he only unbuckle and shove his cams down enough for Cable to feel him up, groping his ass and thighs and tugging at the elastic of his jock until the pouch cut into his nuts. 

Cable had been the one to groan like a starving man at a feast and blurt out, _perfect, just like that, Bright Lady, if only I had you every day_ while fumbling with his own trousers, the metallic clink of his belt buckle echoing extra loud against the tiled walls. 

Distantly Frank knows he should defend his own tattered honour but he doesn't, or can't, or both. Doesn't really matter in the end. Instead Frank barely swallows the incriminating groan that threatens to fall from his idiot mouth as Cable mouths at his jaw and kisses his neck and bites at his ear, breathing fast and clutching at Cable’s hand on his chest.

He can feel Cable smile, stubble scraping against stubble as his cheeks wrinkle up with that smug know-it-all grin that makes Frank’s fist itch. “My pretty wife,” he breathes. “Mrs Summers. Perfect.”

God, he can't come up with something cutting in response to that. Too checked out in the moment, that's his excuse. The fuckin’ wife stuff Cable says, always with the wife stuff. Stupid. Stupid how it makes Frank's guts squirm and his throat feel tight, demeaning and fantastic equally, and he _knows_ that the big man at his back knows every tell Frank’s got about it. 

Outside there's a squeal of tyres as someone peels out of the forecourt, voices raised in reply. 

Cable kisses the corner of Frank's mouth, his cheek, his ear. His breath smells like sugary popsicle and the instant coffee he'd drunk in three long mouthfuls inside the gas station, strong enough to cut through the heavy scent of bubblegum air freshener and the odour of stale piss and industrial cleaner. There's strawberry lube from a neon packet he hurriedly bought from the wall-mounted condom dispenser smeared between his thighs, fake sweet and sticky, mixing with his’n Cable's old sweat in a tangy cocktail that tickles his nose.

Cable cranes around’ til he can kiss Frank properly, slowing down to a shallow rock of his hips as he kisses Frank way too sweetly for their surroundings, too sweet for the moment, too sweet for everything. He chases Frank’s lips when he moves, makes a sweet noise into Frank's mouth that no one in a million years could ever imagine coming from someone so big and heavy and powerful. 

“Down you go,” says Cable into his mouth. Then again, even as he takes another kiss, and another one, before he reluctantly leans back and presses a broad palm between Frank's shoulder blades. 

“Down,” he says, and presses firm until Frank has no choice but to bend at the waist and lean on his elbows. He chews at his lip like a child, forcing silent the slutty groan that threatens to roar outta his chest at the feel of Cable spreading him wide to look at his hole, handling him like he's little more than a piece of meat. 

Someone hammers at the door. “Yinz gonna be much longer?”

“Occupied,” Cable thunders. He rests his hand on Frank's neck like he's scruffing a puppy, bleeding away Frank's well-deserved instinct to go on the defensive. “Wait your turn.” 

“Are you gonna stare all day or are you gonna finish,” Frank says, voice low. He sounds calm, like his heart hasn't picked up a beat after the noise at the door, beating hard from being handled like nothing, being stared at, knowing that Cable is looking his fill of the way his crack and thighs are shiny with cheap lube, watching how Frank’s clenching down on nothing. 

“I'm in no rush.” He rubs his thumb over the line of Frank's spine, tugging light at his shirt collar. “Nowhere I'd rather be.”

He can hear Cable masturbating over him, the sticky slide of his palm and the way he's breathing heavy, audible even over the muffled noise of a busy gas station just outside the bathroom door. When he glances up in the mirror he can see Cable’s dick-drunk expression reflected back at him, unfiltered by the realisation that he's being watched. His lips are parted and eyes half-closed, a lazy drip of molten gold light curling over his cheek as he stares down at Frank’s ass and the slide of his dick between Frank’s cheeks, notched against Frank’s hole, staring like he can't possibly get enough of it imprinted to memory to satisfy him. 

It's humiliating and debasing, being so nakedly objectified like this. It's the hottest thing that's happened to him in weeks, just like it always is with Cable, reliable as the sun rising in the morning. When they fuck slow it's great, when he fucks Cable fast and mean it's great. When Cable wraps his big fist around their dicks pressed hot and wet together it's great, when they have a clipped conversation on the phone full of dead air as they masturbate together it's still mind blowingly great. 

It's always great, even when it's kinda shitty and Cable can't get it up or Frank busts too fast or the timing isn't right and one or both of ‘em has to leave before they can finish. Hell, even when it's over before it can even start, both of ‘em beholden to people and circumstances beyond their control. It's _still_ great, even then. 

Maybe that's the real problem, letting himself even think about having something that good in his life. 

Frank can't seize that thought right now, not even if he wanted to. It's too slippery and too elusive and Frank's reflexes are too slow; mentally checked out by the feel of Cable’s huge warm hands and the hot press of his dick and the way he's staring down at Frank like a man who thinks he's the luckiest asshole in the whole damn world. 

Frank can't smother the pathetic hitched moan that slips from his mouth at the sight of Cable standing so thick and heavy and imposing behind him, and the sound is enough to break Cable’s reverie. 

Cable swears under his breath, something quaint and nonsensical, and settles his hands back on Frank’s hips. “Nothing in the world quite like you, Mrs Summers.” He catches Frank’s eyes in the mirror and his expression changes for a brief moment into something Frank can't read, his mismatched eyes crinkled ‘round the edges, before he leans down and kisses Frank’s shoulder sweet and chaste. 

The press of Cable’s considerable weight across Frank’s back makes his breath hitch again, a soft sigh of noise, and he blindly reaches back to grab Cable’s wrist and drag his hand up Frank’s side, up his ribs to his chest. “Like that,” he says. “Stay there. Give it, like that.”

Cable doesn't need clearer instructions. He presses him down, smothers him from shoulder to thigh and crushes Frank's ribs against the lip of the bench as he fucks his thighs fast and selfish. Cable tries to get a handful of Frank’s chest, fixated to a fault, knocking his fingers against the bench. 

“Unacceptable,” he says to himself, like a commander confronted with a problem. An easy fix. He yanks Frank back a half step, back enough from the bench that his shirt hangs loose from gravity and Cable can shove his hands under the sweaty fabric without obstruction. 

He palms a handful of thick muscle and squeezes Frank’s chest and mutters all kinds of horseshit about Frank’s tits, Frank’s ass, how good it's gonna feel unloading between Frank's slick thighs. He pinches Frank's nipples and drags his fingertips over the thick cuts and scars of Frank's torso, unworried by the noise from outside. 

Someone knocks at the door again. “Hurry the fuck up in there. Some of us gotta piss, buddy.”

“Occupied.” It's Frank's turn this time. “ _Occupied_.”

Cable’s playing a good game at staying slow and dragging it out, letting Frank hang himself out to dry on his own mounting concern about being busted in the bathroom, but Frank's felt that huge domineering presence labouring behind him - over him, in him - enough by now to know that Cable’s barely hanging on by sheer willpower.

“C’mon,” Frank says, elbow braced against the chipped bathroom bench as he reaches under himself to cup his clothed cock, the cotton strained and damp with precum and smears of strawberry lube. He pushes his fingers through the tight seal of his thighs and cups the fat head of Cable’s cock, fingertips grazing the taut bow of his frenulum on every thrust. “C’mon, c’mon.”

“Thought…” Cable trails off, hands slipping on the sweaty skin of Frank’s side. “I thought you wanted me to be quiet.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Frank grits out between gritted teeth. “Just c'mon, give it to me. Please.”

The noise Cable makes at that could rattle the rafters, an indulgent roof-shattering groan as he shoves himself into Frank’s hand hard enough that they both stumble forward into the bathroom bench, Frank's elbow skidding through a puddle of water and knocking against the lip of the steel sink.

“Bright... fucking _Lady_ ,” he mutters, hips snapping jerkily as he grunts and comes with a big self-satisfied groan.

Cable's cum feels searing hot between Frank’s thighs, a bloom of wet heat smearing between his thighs and cheeks and behind his balls, shot after shot of thick semen marking him up and branding his skin. 

His broad metal hand twitches on Frank's hip, featherlight jerks as he rocks his hips flush to Frank’s ass.

“Oath, you fantastic bitch. _Fuck,_ sweetheart.” He strokes Frank's back reverently as he comes back online, circling from shoulder blades to spine to the small of his back in an idle endless loop. 

Frank watches Cable’s reflection in the mirror, mentally saving the image of Cable at total checked-out peace for later review. Cable's broad shoulders are slumped like his strings have been cut, his mismatched eyes tracking nothing as he takes heavy breath after heavy breath and mindlessly pets at Frank. 

“You,” says Frank primly, “Summers, are too goddamn noisy for this kinda action.” He squeezes his thighs together one last time in a powerful clench of solid muscle, just to wring one last full-body tremble out of Cable. The big man shudders behind him before taking a shaky step back to admire his handiwork all over Frank’s thighs, dick hanging out of his pants like a fool. 

Frank tolerates being ogled for a good few seconds before he straightens up with a noisy pop of his spine, wincing at the slide of wet on his skin. What had felt mind-breakingly hot just a brief moment ago now is starting to feel like the most disgusting thing on earth, Cable’s cum already cooling sticky and thick. He hadn't thought to check if the scratchy paper towel dispenser was full before he willingly bent over; if it's empty he's gonna take by force Cable’s shirt and use it to mop the cooling congealing mess of semen and strawberry lube off his thighs and cheeks and throw it back at Cable. His mess, his problem. 

Cable blots his forehead with the back of his arm, and gestures for Frank to turn around. He clicks his tongue, _no,_ when Frank reaches for his open fly to… hell, he doesn't know. 

Zip up over the sticky mess on his thighs and the tight strain of his dick pushing against precum-soaked cotton, turn it into another little humiliation to force himself through on the implicit promise that Cable’ll turn it into something to blow his mind later. A reward for good behaviour, clicker trained like Cable's faithful dog. 

Or he could push the whole thing down, trousers and jock both, to let his dick spring free, ugly red and dripping wet at the tip, and demand Cable get on his knees on the dirty brown tiles and clean Frank up. Equal reward for services rendered. 

“I like that idea,” says Cable, all magnanimous as he shoves his dick back in his shorts and adjusts himself comfortable. “Always knew I married you for your mind.”

“Quit your bullshit.” Frank grabs him by the wrist and forces that terrible metal hand to his dick, humping himself off against Cable’s broad palm like a dumbass teenager getting his first handy. “If you're gonna do it then get me off.”

“Hands down, sweetheart,” Cable says, pushy even as he's getting to his knees. He swats Frank’s hands away, like Frank isn’t even capable of forcing that minimal attention from him.

If push came to the real hard and bloody and desperate kind of shove, man against man, meat against meat, Frank knows he could wipe the floor with Cable. Quicker on his feet, more used to fighting without weapons, never reliant on the crutch of any power other than the strength of his own bare hands. He could wear Cable down in a fast war of attrition, let the man’s own size be his downfall, turn time and gravity to his advantage. 

But on the other hand objective fact has nothing on the way the mangy junkyard dog in Frank’s brain turns into a yappy little bitch when Cable kneels on the floor in front of him and he's _still_ big and broad and solid, his cropped silver hair level with Frank’s sternum. Frank's not even sure there's anything he _would_ do that would or even want to do to easily knock Cable back; not with every part of him so attuned to Cable like a lodestone, excited and eager. 

He sighs when Cable pushes his shirt up and kisses down his gut, sweet and tender, before wrapping his lips around the head of Frank's cock and sucking him through his jock. 

No other time in his life would Frank consider himself subservient to anyone else, perpetually dick-drunk and parched for attention, yet Cable staining his knees with the filth of a dirty gas station bathroom and looking up at Frank with an expression that's equal parts ravenous and naked admiration leaves him just... _mindless_ for it. Desperate even. Desperate to be consumed. Desperate to be used, desperate to be joyously eaten up and sucked dry and drained empty, and ready to offer himself up for Cable’s enthusiastic consumption again and again.

That line of thought shouldn't make Frank's dick throb and bead up another fat pearl of wet into the soaked cotton under Cable’s eager mouth, but it does, same as it's done for months and months and months now.

Some things aren't worth the interrogation. Some things Frank has accepted as true and inalienable and fundamentally correct, and that's just how it is. 

Frank likes that Cable is big enough and strong enough to make him take it, whatever _it_ might be. Cable likes that Frank is strong enough and mean enough and hungry enough to take whatever Cable gives him, confident in the knowledge that there’s a degree of complete safety there; that nothing meted out hasn’t been carefully assessed against the discordant - yet self-preserving - din in Frank’s head, or weighed against their time together, what was good and what wasn't, what made them both better for the time spent together.

 _Christ almighty,_ Frank thinks, looking down at Cable’s big metal hand on his hip, at the way those banded gleaming inhuman fingers flex and push into his skin as Cable mouths at his dick and sucks him through spit-stained cotton. _Christ al-fucking-mighty. How did I get this lucky._

“I should open the door,” says Cable against his hip. His cheeks are flushed, mismatched eyes bright with exertion when he looks up at Frank. He hooks his thumbs under the elastic of Frank’s jock, tugging the band down ‘til his dick bounces free, hard and dark and heavy. Frank groans, and groans louder when Cable rubs his face against Frank’s dick, getting precum all over his cheek and over his lips. He kisses the head of Frank’s cock, works his tongue under Frank's foreskin and licks into his piss slit. “Let ‘em see what a prize I've got here.”

“Hell with it,” Frank says. He pumps his dick with his palm and pushes into Cable’s mouth ‘til he coughs at the intrusion, throat working tight and air rushing out of his nose. He stays there a long moment, heart thundering in his chest, Cable’s hands anchored on his hips to hold him in place ‘til he eases up off Frank’s dick and leans back to take a wet breath. 

“Bright Lady,” he says, eyelashes damp with reflexive tears. “Tell me again why I don't get to do this every day?”

“Hell with it,” Frank says again, ignoring the question. He steps sideways out of Cable’s grasp. “You want to show off? Let 'em watch you suck me off.”

The lock doesn't catch when Frank pulls at the handle. It slides over the strike plate, smooth and unhindered as the men's room door opens with a bang against the condom machine, noise echoing against the tiles.

There's nothing outside except hazy greyness. The air wavers. The walls of the grimy little bathroom crack and split, and peel away to nothing, something imperceptible m ‘ til Frank blinks and looks at the cheap white pillows of the budget motel he's been renting for two nights, the chipped edge of the tv remote half buried under the polyester cover and digging into Frank’s elbow. 

He squints and shakes his head, the last vestiges of Cable abruptly leaving his brain crackling like a sharp electric burn down the left side of his head. 

Cable groans from underneath him, rubbing the heels of his palms into his eyes. “You got me by surprise,” he says accusingly. “You tipped me up.”

“You shoulda had a contingency plan,” Frank counters. He rolls up onto his elbow and allows himself a long unhurried look at Cable spread out under him, one long leg pushed between Frank's thick thighs. The mattress squeaks when he moves, springs straining under their combined weight. 

It's late in the afternoon, closer to evening than not. There's enough light leaking around the nearly-closed blinds to see the big damp spot on Cable's trim blue briefs, dark and filmy where his semen has leaked through the thin fabric. 

“Jesus,” Frank says, and helps himself to a feel. Cable’s still half hard and hot under his hand, rocking into his palm with a self-satisfied grunt as Frank grasps him lightly and smears his cum around. “And you claim I'm the one with a… a thing.”

“Your things are my things,” says Cable plainly, and it's so stupid that Frank doesn't bother to hide his disbelieving laugh. “What? You don't think that I'm gonna get caught up in whatever fantasy is churning in that messy brain of yours?”

Cable squeezes Frank’s shoulders lightly, a sliver of pre-warning, before he wraps his arms around Frank and rolls them bodily on the squeaking motel mattress ‘til he's on top. Cable’s hair is sweaty and tousled, and he's looking down at Frank with that familiar expression of naked want and ravenous hunger and, truly terrifying, a kind of softness around his eyes and a lopsided lift to his mouth that makes Frank's guts swoop in freefall.

To be wanted is one thing, easily to rationalise away as a product of the heat of the moment. To be looked at with affection, that's a whole ‘nother thing that he's not capable of dealing with as anything other than an abstract. Too dangerously close to the fragile, shameful thread of _want_ that lives in the deepest, most hard to reach parts of Frank's psyche; his sad little guttering candle that burns fitful and desperate where no one should ever be allowed to see it, least of all Frank himself. 

“I've been in your head rubbing off between those fantastic thighs, listening to you work yourself up over someone bursting in,” he continues. “Not a chance in hell I'm not going to bust at that.” Cable pauses and gives Frank an indulgent slow kiss, licking deep into his mouth. 

“Half expected you'd taste like shitty coffee,” Frank says, turning his head so Cable has no choice but to press his jaw against Frank’s, stubble rasping against stubble. “Popsicle? Really?”

“Nothing wrong with popsicles,” Cable says. “Got a freezer full of them.” He kisses Frank’s temple chastely, and says into Frank's ear, low and secret, “Be my good girl and I'll give you one.”

“Unbelievable,” Frank mutters, but he still twists around for another kiss. It's a sweet moment, romantic almost. Definitely too sweet for the beige shoebox motel room they're in, too sweet for the sports bag of guns kicked half under the bed and the bag of blood-soaked cams going rancid in the bathroom and the pile of Frank’s sweaty plate carrier stinking up the dinette in the corner. 

Maybe Cable is eavesdropping, maybe he isn't. He smiles down at Frank with indulgent fondness written all over his normally stern scowling face, and tips his weight onto one arm so he can stroke his smooth metal thumb over Frank’s temple, following the tell-tale sweeps of grey firmly established in what was once coal black hair. 

Cable weighs three bucks and change, thick and heavy even with his weight canted to one side, and for a blissful moment Frank relishes the feel of being pressed into the mattress by muscle and metal, small and smothered and protected. 

It doesn't last long. It never fuckin’ lasts long, no matter how much he wants it to last. It takes only a few deep breaths before Frank’s chest feels tight and his fingertips prickle and the mangy dog in his head starts to strain at its leash. He says, steadier than he feels, “C’mon, c’mon, finish what you started,” and pushes at Cable’s shoulders. “For real this time. Your mouth.”

Cable says _hmmm_ and squeezes Frank's dick, rubbing his fingers over the head and tugging at his foreskin ‘til Frank makes a thin noise in the back of his throat. “My mouth? You sure?”

“Don't be smart,” says Frank, trying for pissy but failing spectacularly. He’s already half clocked out, humping Cable’s fist in a jerky rhythmless attempt at getting himself off. “C’mon, please. Suck me.”

Cable laughs at him, and slides down just enough to get his mouth on Frank's nipple. Frank whines like a silly little bitch at the blunt threat of teeth, even as he's pinching and twisting at the other one harder than Cable would dare. He sucks hard at the tight bud ‘til it’s well past pink, tight in his mouth, and hums appreciatively when Frank arches his back and grinds his tits into Cable’s mouth

“I should open the door up right now,” he says, letting go with a noisy pop of his lips. “Fantastic piece like you, ready and available. Bet all the neighbours would fall over themselves to get a look.” He squints up at Frank, his dud eye burning like hot coal for a brief moment as the sensation of a dozen hands groping and squeezing Frank’s chest rolls over him, gone as quick as they'd arrived. 

“Quit it,” Frank whines, mindful that he's whining yet too far gone to care. “Quit it.”

“No,” says Cable firmly. “This isn't for you. You know what I want? I want ‘em all to tell me how lucky I am.” He pauses a moment, distracted by jacking Frank tight and fast ‘til he’s struggling underneath him, heels twisting into the motel sheets in an effort not to spurt all over Cable’s thick metal fingers. “I want people to line up and tell me how lucky I am to have such a fantastic piece in my bed,” Cable continues. “That I get to have all of you and they only get to think about it.” He surges back up Frank’s body ‘til he can kiss him again, all artifice of teasing and stringing it out dropped in favour of licking deep into Frank’s mouth. 

_Stupid,_ a distant part of Frank thinks, lost under the din of chaotic animal instinct and chorus of _not yet not yet don't bust yet_ ringing in his head like a church bell. _It's not like that._

Cable rolls up onto his elbow and looks at Frank, _really_ looks at him like he's committing this moment to memory: Frank laid out under him, sweaty and red-faced, biting his lip as he struggles against the instinct to cum in the tight vice of Cable’s terrifying metal hand. 

“My perfect wife,” Cable breathes, and chastely kisses him on the lips. “However you want it, sweetheart,” he adds cryptically before he kicks the sheets from around his ankle and gets onto his knees. He crawls backwards ‘til he's half hanging off the mattress, sliding his palms down Frank's thighs and pushing them apart. 

It's a hell of a sight, Cable between his legs. He rubs his cheek down Frank's shaft, stubble pricking at sensitive skin, and wipes away any acidic complaint bubbling up in Frank's throat by kissing away the thick trails of precum wetting his cock. Cable takes him in loud hungry swallows ‘til his nose is brushing Frank’s bush, thick arms wrapped around his thighs and pressing into his stomach, holding him down. The light from his mismatched eyes makes the wet mess of thick hair on Frank's gut shine gilded bright. 

Cable’s mouth is hot and wet and soft, obscenely good. He sucks Frank leisurely and slow, like there's nothing else he'd rather be doing. He hums appreciatively when Frank blindly grasps at his hair and gets his heels underneath his thighs, clutching Cable in place so he can rock himself into that wonderful throat. 

It's all distracting, so fantastically distracting that he doesn't even notice Cable sliding into his head and sinuously curling around his spine and trickling into the most base animal parts of Frank's brain until the words roar up molten gold on inside his ears, _my pretty wife, fantastic, good boy, my good girl, next time I'll leave the door unlocked,_ radiating an aura of warm - smug - approval when Frank quakes from head to toe and bucks up into his mouth. 

The wheeze of the air conditioner kicking in and the touch of ephemeral hands stroking Frank’s chest and arms slowly rouses him back from his post-orgasm haze. It's a foreign sensation, being so relaxed that he’s even capable of letting his guard down so far. It's something that he's not sure he should be allowed to have, no matter how much he overthinks it, no matter how hard he wants to rationalise it into something small and measurable and permitted. 

“Stop thinking so loud,” mumbles Cable, cheek resting on Frank’s hip. “Give it five minutes.” 

“Fuck off,” Frank says, more from habit than intention. He slides over a little to where the sheets are cool and dry, watching through half-closed eyes as Cable walks on his knees up the bed and falls back onto the pillows with a self-satisfied sigh, fishing around for the tv remote under his head and placing it ceremoniously on Frank's chest. 

“Your problem,” he says officiously, and grins when Frank sends it skidding down the sheets and gestures for him to kiss him instead.

They kiss slow and lazy, the covers tangled around their feet. Cable hums as Frank chases the taste of his own cum in Cable’s mouth, eyes closed as Frank tugs at his hair and follows him down into the cheap polyester pillows. He can feel Cable at the back of his brain, quiet and unobtrusive, sampling the thoughts that bubble to the top of Frank’s mind.

He's not real sure what Cable’s even looking for. He feels both satisfied and wrung-out, content to do nothing more than relish the feel of Cable stroking his hands over sweaty skin, digging his knuckles into the small of Frank's back. Even the cool stickiness of Cable’s ruined underwear pressed against his hip isn't as revolting as it should rightly be, made almost appealing by the twin factors of it being Cable’s cum and Cable’s everything else. 

“Keep them,” Cable says into his mouth, kissing him one more time before he smacks him on the side in an invitation to get the hell off him. “Take them with you. A reward for good behaviour. But,” he adds regretfully, “I gotta clean up. Need to get these things off before they wax me.”

He gently squeezes Frank’s thigh before stretching luxuriously, fingers to toes, before rolling off the bed and onto his knees. Cable stays there for a moment before he gets up with a grunt, the mattress dipping when all his weight pushes on the edge. 

Frank dozes after that, relaxed and wrung-out. He skips through the motel’s limited tv channels, uninterested in actually forcing himself to pay attention to anything more demanding than the bare minimum, and gives up right around the time he lands on some goofy lookin’ guy with jug ears and a face smeared with grease leaning against tank treads, hassling a barely-weaned recruit against the backdrop of Europe’s muddiest fields. He's pretty sure he's seen it before. Good enough to watch, not good enough to remember. Frank half-listens to the chug of Detroit diesel and the whistle of shells on the tv’s tinny speakers, and half-listens to the more appealing sound of Cable whistling tunelessly as he washes himself in the too-small shower, hunched over to rinse away all the generic motel shampoo. 

God help him if they ever make a true crime documentary about Frank’s life after he finally gets kicked off this mortal coil. Knowing his luck this is the kind of actor they’d get to play him. 

“You got plans after this?” Cable leans against the door frame, a half-sized motel towel hanging damp over his shoulder, naked skin and bare metal all gleaming yellow under the sickly jaundiced glow of the bathroom’s overhead light. He smirks when Frank looks him over like a compulsion, top to bottom, lingering at the way his folded arms push up and out the thick muscles of his chest.

“Jersey,” Frank says, folding the pillow under his head so he can get a better look. _At the tv,_ he adds silently, ignoring Cable’s chuckle. “Resupply, rest up. Chase some leads.”

“Downtime,” Cable says sagely. “Want some company?”

“You can't be that bored,” says Frank before he can think better of it. “Thought you were off to Petrozavodsk.”

Cable shrugs. “Time is relative. I have a day spare. I'd rather spend some time with my lovely wife.”

“Tell her I said hi.” 

Cable laughs at that, a big rolling wave of noise rising from deep in his chest as he crosses the room and sits down next to Frank, mattress springs groaning like a chorus. “Hi,” he says, sliding over as Frank both rolls his eyes and lifts his arm in a silent invitation.

“Knock that shit off. Jesus, you’re insufferable.”

“Three hours from here to Jersey,” says Cable, ignoring him. “Reckon you'd need to stop for gas?”

“Nope. The forward tank’s over half full,” says Frank automatically, then, louder, as Cable presses against Frank’s brain and makes it crystal clear what he means, from the grimy tiles to the automatic air freshener, “Christ. No.”

“Just a thought.” Cable brushes his lips against Frank's temple and helps himself to the remote, turning the volume up. “Not ready to make it a reality?”

He closes his eyes for a moment at that. Frank's not sure he's ever gonna get used to Cable broadsiding him with that kind of bullish honesty, presenting something he’s fished outta Frank's head - a fantasy, a scenario, whatever scrap of horny bullshit is churning over the basest urges lurking in Frank’s brain - like it's something that’s not just doable, but something that could readily made into a reality with plenty of enthusiasm and a little materiel planning on Cable’s end. 

A long time ago he couldn’t tell whether Cable selectively put his heart on his sleeve or if he was honest all the time, and if Cable _was_ honest was he one of those double-talkers who was just really damn good at being honest in a way that masked the truth. Now, with the benefit of exposure to Cable’s bullshit, he’s convinced that Cable is honest with him all the time solely because he likes how it trips Frank up like a large rock hefted into a still pond.

“Don’t think that’s a good idea,” he says eventually, taking back the remote and turning the volume down a few notches. “Some of us can’t get busted with our dicks out in public.”

“I’m yet to test that extent of my diplomatic passport,” says Cable, “But sure. I get it.” He squints at the tv. “That guy kinda looks like you.”

“Cram it,” says Frank. “Don’t be an asshole if you’re planning on hitching a ride with me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He leans back on the thin pillows with a contented sigh and, subtle as an ox, wraps his arm around Frank’s shoulders in what Frank has long since come to accept as the compromise between affection and personal space. “Keep in mind, Mrs Summers, that Times Square is still an option that I’m very eager to explore.”

Frank can tell Cable is smiling serenely to himself without even having to look over and check, no doubt soaking up the instant boil-over of reactions that particular concept always inspires, Frank beaming out every kind of Catholic-tinged awful want to everyone in a three mile radius capable of hearing him. He can even see Cable’s dud eye reflecting in the tv, warm golden light curling over his cheek.

“If that’s what you want,” he lobs back. “You want ‘em to line up and tell you how lucky you are, right?”

“More’n anything in the world,” Cable says without pause, squeezing Frank’s shoulder for emphasis. He grins when Frank scoffs under his breath. “Don’t test me, Mrs Summers. There are some battles you’re never fated to win. Trust me.”

**Author's Note:**

> [stryfeposting](http://stryfeposting.tumblr.com).


End file.
